


The Destruction of Sennacherib

by garrisonbabe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cas performs poetry like a bamf, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:11:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garrisonbabe/pseuds/garrisonbabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Cas was nervous. The stage wasn’t his usual place, but Sam had convinced him to go for it. Dean was sitting in the fifth row, just a little to the right, giving him a small smile. They called Cas’ name and announced his poem and he tried to keep his hands from shaking visibly as he stepped forward to the mic.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>His voice came out smooth and quiet, forcing everyone to sit forward and listen.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Destruction of Sennacherib

**Author's Note:**

> Another I wrote over on tumblr. I adore Byron and this poem in particular. Hope you like it.

Cas was nervous. The stage wasn’t his usual place, but Sam had convinced him to go for it. Dean was sitting in the fifth row, just a little to the right, giving him a small smile. They called Cas’ name and announced his poem and he tried to keep his hands from shaking visibly as he stepped forward to the mic.

His voice came out smooth and quiet, forcing everyone to sit forward and listen.

“The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,” some people were smiling, recognizing the selection, others were looking on in curiosity. Dean folded his hands together in his lap, his face turning thoughtful, “and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold.”

He blinked and behind his eyes he saw a battlefield much like the one Byron depicted. “And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, when the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.”

His tone had shifted to something conversational and he tried his best to sound a little wistful as he continued to the next quatrain, remembering in his mind the summers he spent with his older brothers before their dad died as his mouth ran on autopilot through the verse.

“Like the leaves of the forest when the Summer is green, that host with their banners at sunset were seen,” he changed his tone, quieting back down and seeming almost a little lost even to himself, “like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, that host on the morrow lay withered and strown.”

He could have chosen a simpler poem, something more people were familiar with. Maybe Frost or Angelou, but he’d always had a soft spot for Byron. A brief pause and he took the mic out of the stand, moving more toward center stage, his voice raising up again, loud enough that it punched from the speakers when he started up again.

“For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,” he recalled an argument with Michael, a plate breaking, “and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed.”

Dean’s face flashed in his mind, calm and patient as Castiel calmed afterward. “And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,” he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, voice shaking, “and their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!”

Everyone was silent, eyes fixed on him when he looked out. Dean’s mouth hung open, eyes wide in shock. He paced back two steps toward the stand, stopping as he began to speak. “And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, but through it there rolled not the breath of his pride.”

He continued to move back to his original spot, voice growing steadier by the syllable. “And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, and cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.”

His feet stilled, his head turning as he scanned the crowd. “And there lay the rider distorted and pale, with the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail.”

The smoothness to his voice was giving way to his usual crushed gravel burn, speakers reverberating deeply behind his words. “And their tents were all silent, the banners alone, the lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.”

The cadence of his speech picked up, body moving to stand almost exactly where he’d started. His volume rose, booming in the beginning of the final four lines.

“And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,” he reached out to the stand and dragged it over, putting as much force and finality into his words as he could muster.

Michael flashed in front of his eyes again and he thought of the day he’d moved out. “And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!”

He flashed a smile and replaced the microphone, stunned when Dean stood and clapped, followed quickly by at least half of the auditorium as the event’s host tried to get everyone to quiet down so they could keep on schedule with their performers. When he sat down he met Dean’s eyes and tried to keep his giddy smile contained.

Dean mouthed  _I love you_  and he failed utterly, laughing slight as he nodded and mouthed it back, the crowd finally lulling and returning to their calm.


End file.
